


Less-Than Gods

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-14
Updated: 2010-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:09:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is fitting that first Gabriel is more, and then he is less, and then he will be more again. All it takes is time. Coda to episode 5.19.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Less-Than Gods

  
Castiel dreams.

It is another testament to his fading Grace, shorn from him, piece by piece, the further he falls from the Light of God. Angels do not sleep. They have no need for it. Their energy comes, not from their vessels, but from Heaven. It might explain why Castiel has been so tired lately.

In the dream, he is standing next to a forest path, cobbled together from the tramping of many feet; there are markers planted every few yards to guide the way. The path looks ancient, but no part of the forest has dared to overtake it. Tree roots grow around or under the bare earth, but they do not plunge through; creeping vines dangle bare centimeters away from the path, but seem to have ceased growing entirely, lest they touch the dusty ground. Castiel stands very, very still, for the longest time.

Then he steps forward, onto the path.

The wind picks up almost immediately – it is not a storm, merely a strong breeze, but Castiel feels the promise in it nonetheless. He turns in a circle, letting the wind strike his face, his shoulders, his back.

"There's like, a _billion_ different things you could be doing in your dreamscape, and out of all of them you decide to visit my old altar. I'm touched, bro."

Castiel finishes his turn, facing the far end of the path. He can make out Gabriel's smile, his laughing eyes, the length of an arm, but everything else is cast in shadow or simply…not there. He has been reduced to the idea of trees, the smell of pine thick and heady, shadows of soft needles patterning the areas where Gabriel's skin should be. An outline is not a person. This is something less than Gabriel, something diluted and small.

But it _is_ Gabriel.

"You are dead," Castiel says. The words cause a lump to rise in his throat. Emotions are difficult to 'get the hang of,' as Dean might say. He isn't sure whether this is sadness or nausea. The thing that was Gabriel trips down the path, light as deer hooves, and he is not only pine needles, but oak leaves, and the textured patterns of tree bark, and the winding curves of roots. In between the dark green and brown, there are flashes of pale skin.

"'Dead' is a human concept," Gabriel notes. "It means less to gods."

"You are not a god."

Gabriel's smile is made of sharp-edged rocks. Obsidian and coal. His lips are still flushed pink with living blood.

"Well, not _always_."

Castiel opens his eyes. Sam is leaning over him; he looks worried.

"_Cas_. Jesus, we thought you were in a coma or something." Dean. Dean is still driving. Castiel is sitting in the back seat of the Impala, and he had…

"I fell asleep," he says, and Sam purses his lips, as though he understands.

***

Castiel dreams. He has been attempting to avoid it by dint of refusing to sleep, but the long days wear on him, and it is becoming increasingly difficult to resist the demands of his vessel.

"It's an empty vessel, you know. Basically yours. A little used, and maybe the mileage isn't all that great, but it's yours."

The forest path has not changed, but he is standing further along it, now. He can see, in the distance, a mound of stones. The thing that was Gabriel leans against the sturdy trunk of a pine, almost blending in with the bark. Castiel notes that he is not wearing any clothes, but it does not seem to matter. There is no body for them to fit upon, only an idea.

"You are not Gabriel," Castiel says, and the idea smiles. His smile is moonlight, is snow.

"I'm all the best parts of him."

"He is dead."

"_Mostly_ dead."

Castiel tilts his head. "There is no such thing as 'mostly' dead." Gabriel laughs, short, sharp.

"You've never seen The Princess Bride. Figures. You're wrong, little bro. I'm Gabriel. Not all of him, but a lot of him. I was the god-thing inside him. I'm the salmon and the horse. Earthquakes. Chaos. I'm Loki. Or, what's left of him, anyways."

"You are not my Brother."

The god-thing shrugs. "Maybe not now. I'm not much of anything, right now. Just scraps, floating around the ether of the universe. But soon. The cosmos aren't without loopholes, you know."

"Gabriel," Castiel says, aching and slow. The thing that was Gabriel winks, and then Castiel takes a deep, heaving breath. It feels like he's drowning.

"Cas. _Cas_. Wake up, it's time to go."

He turns his head towards the sound of Dean's voice.

"You were snoring," Dean says. He's smiling. Castiel isn't sure what that means.

"I will endeavor to refrain from doing so in the future," he says hesitantly, and Dean's smile grows wider.

"No, no, it's cool. Come on, we're heading out."

***

Sam and Dean fight often, although they are often quick to reassure Castiel that it is not 'fighting' so much as it is 'arguing.' Castiel cannot tell the difference. It all seems loud and angry, to him.

"I don't want a fuckin' _air freshener_. The car smells fine!"

"Dean, it smells like take-out and gun oil. And _us_."

"What's wrong with us? You saying I smell funky?"

"We smell like blood and sweat half the time, Dean! How is that not funky?"

Sam defiantly hangs something from the rearview mirror. It is a representation of some sort of tree. It smells strongly of pine. Castiel sways forward, and he recalls that the vast majority of human memories are built upon scent. Both Sam and Dean turn to look at him: Dean with curiosity, Sam with an aching loneliness of his own.

"I enjoy the smell of pine," Castiel says, and Dean grumbles as he starts the car.

"Yeah, whatever."

***

Gabriel is lying upon his altar. There is more of him now, more skin, more presence. Castiel does not dare to step any closer.

"Old magic," Gabriel says softly. "Magic that's been put in stasis. It's been a while, since I've been here."

"You are dead. You cannot be anywhere."

"You're starting to sound like a broken record there, Castiel. I'm not dead. I'm just…lost. But hey, I'm working on it. See?" Gabriel holds up his forearms. They are no longer made from pine and dust. The pale skin is still speckled with what looks like the imprints of leaves. He lowers his arms again. "It's a work in progress."

"Why are you here? What do you want?"

Gabriel tilts his head, slinks down off his altar and approaches Castiel. There are twigs and animal bones all tangled up in his hair.

"A second chance," he says softly. "You're giving me one."

Castiel shakes his head.

"You _are_. You're letting me hang out here, aren't you? While I get myself situated."

"You have yet to give me a choice," Castiel complains, and Gabriel reaches out, lays rough fingers against his cheek.

"That's the spirit. Bitch all you want, but you aren't going to do anything about it. Because you know I'm right. I deserve this."

"I know nothing, when it comes to you."

Gabriel's fingertips are replaced with the cool softness of his lips. He lets the kiss linger against Castiel's cheek for long minutes, and then leans back again.

"I'm a god," Gabriel says. "We're supposed to be ineffable."

The casual blasphemy of the statement is what jerks Castiel out of the dream, and he wakes, gasping, on a bed in an empty hotel room. A quick examination of his surroundings reveals that Dean and Sam have likely gone out to procure food. Castiel lets himself fall back into the softness of the pillow, but no matter how desperately he wishes it, he cannot force himself to sleep.

***

He asks Sam, because Sam seems to be the most reasonable, and the most likely to give him a coherent and understandable answer.

"There's a lot of lore about gods that shapeshift into different things," Sam says, bringing up an illustration of a swan on his laptop. "Zeus, for instance. But that isn't what you wanted to know, is it."

Castiel isn't sure _what_ he wants to know.

"This is about Gabriel?" The long fingers tap down a few keys. Another image takes the place of the swan, an image of a laughing figure in a red cap. Castiel studies it.

"In Norse myth, Loki's always been sort of a...representation of duality. He's a god, or he's a giant, or sometimes he's both. People shuffle him into the role of 'god of chaos' because there isn't anywhere else that he fits."

Castiel takes a deep breath. The scent of pine follows him everywhere, now.

"Am I helping at all?"

Castiel shrugs. "He could not have been a god. He was an archangel."

Sam slowly closes the laptop. The room is plunged into dimness – in the bed next to them, Dean sleeps with one arm thrown over his face, covering his eyes.

"That's probably why he chose to impersonate Loki," Sam says. "The duality thing."

Castiel does not understand. It is impossible for an archangel to be a god. Archangels were formed by the careful workings of his Father's hands. Gods were formed from nothing. He knows Gabriel.

He _knew_ him.

***

"Here," Dean says, and slides his plate across the table towards Castiel. The pie steams, smelling of sugar and flour and cherries. "Try this."

Gabriel would have enjoyed this concoction. Castiel picks up his previously unused fork, neatly carving off a tiny sliver of pie. Sam and Dean watch him with wide eyes as he samples it.

"Dude," Dean says. "I didn't think you'd actually eat it."

"You told me to," Castiel answers, and Sam covers his mouth with one hand.

***

"Pie is the food of the gods," Gabriel says. "Or cake. Éclairs, maybe."

He lounges against his altar. Castiel has permitted himself to come closer – this is a dream, after all, and while he can still feel the magic, stagnant in the air, it cannot harm him so long as this place exists only in his subconscious.

"Remind me that I like éclairs, when the time comes," Gabriel muses.

"When the time comes for what?"

Gabriel blows a lock of hair out of his eyes. He is almost entirely skin, now. "My reincarnation, genius. Or did you think I was hanging out in your dreams for kicks?"

"Angels are not reincarnated. We return to the glory of Heaven and await our Father's judgment."

"You know, this is the root of all your problems. You don't _listen_. Archangel, god, it doesn't matter. I was both. And now I'm more one than the other, but I'm working on it. There are a couple detours I have to make along the way. I'm thinking it'll be interesting, being human. For a while, at least."

Castiel isn't sure what is expected of him. He opens his mouth to speak, but then realizes that he has nothing to say.

"Hey," Gabriel says, and rolls over, hands finding the edges of his altar, holding on. "Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

Castiel stares. "A raven is a species of bird. A writing desk is a flat surface upon which letters may be composed. They are…not similar. At all."

Gabriel snorts. "It's a riddle, Castiel. You're supposed to ask me 'why.'"

Castiel does not see the point in this exercise. "Why?"

The laughter that peals from Gabriel's mouth is loud as a bell, beautiful, vicious. "Fuck if I know. You should ask Raven. He's the one handling all of this."

The laughter is what wakes him. Castiel keeps his eyes closed, but the dream does not return.

***

"I like chocolate," the child says. "And…and gum bears, and taffy. And donuts! But chocolate is my favorite!"

"Jesus," Dean says. He and Sam cannot seem to stop staring. Sam wears glasses, now. Dean walks with a limp – arthritis in his left knee. Dean will be forty, soon. Sam is engaged to a woman who owns a restaurant.

Castiel's vessel is frozen in time, thirty-six and never a day older.

"You think so little of us," the old man standing beside them says. He wears his long, black hair in a braid, decorated with beads made of animal bone. His eyes are sharp and cold as flint. "But we take care of our own."

Castiel kneels down in the red dust, examining the child. His smile is bright, his hair brown, his eyes green. Castiel sees a spark of recognition, and grasps at it, desperately.

"You told me to remind you," he says softly, "that you also like éclairs."

"I'm not taking care of a kid Trickster," Dean says. "He'll put fuckin' toads or something in my dresser, I _know_ it."

"Don't _swear_, Dean!"

Castiel touches his fingers to the curve of the child's cheek, and it's Gabriel, smiling back at him. A different Gabriel. Smaller than he was, perhaps. Diluted.

But it is Gabriel nonetheless.


End file.
